


Bitter Waters

by Dark_Sinestra



Series: DS9: Sub-Prime [26]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Deception, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Internment Camp 371 (Star Trek), Intrigue, M/M, Mind Meld, Mind Rape, Mistaken Identity, Psychological Torture, breaking up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 06:40:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17319887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Sinestra/pseuds/Dark_Sinestra
Summary: The arrival of two infants on the station causes a shift of alliances, bringing about both beginnings and endings that are painful for all involved. Julian and his co-conspirators make their move with the odds against them. They are left to wonder if the prize is worth the price.





	Bitter Waters

**Part I**

_Garak  
Garak’s Clothiers_

Finishing up a final sweep with his drone detection device, Garak tucked it away in the stock room and completed his closing routine. Ever since the explosion in the O’Brien’s quarters and all of the murders of the former Bajoran resistance fighters, he had been on higher alert. He didn’t believe any of it had anything to do with him. However, it made him realize how lax he had grown in his own security. Depression was no excuse for being sloppy. If he was to leave this world, he’d prefer it on his own terms.

A flash of red beyond his locked doors alerted him to the major’s presence. He sighed inwardly. Was it too much to ask of her to approach him during shop hours? He knew before opening the doors he’d adjust whatever she wanted let out. She looked so uncomfortable carrying the O’Briens’ baby that it made him uncomfortable by proxy. “Come in,” he said, making sure that he sounded put upon. Yes, he’d do this. He didn’t have to do it graciously.

Her hesitation was uncharacteristic. Garak sensed something beyond exhaustion and physical discomfort in the grim set of her features. She had recently lost several close friends, he reminded himself. She entered the shop and looked around as though expecting he was entertaining company after hours.

“Let’s go to the back,” he suggested. It wouldn’t do to have others on the Promenade seeing him with a customer. They’d feel entitled to come in, too. “I can get you measured, and we’ll find something for you to wear while I work on your tunic.”

She nodded and followed behind him in silence. He found a loose, flowing top in his returns pile and offered it to her then fetched his tools while she changed in one of the fitting rooms. When she emerged again, he had a hot cup of deka tea waiting for her. She spread her arms for him to measure her girth and allowed him to help her lower onto one of his stools. He regretted he had nothing more comfortable.

He took the other stool and began ripping the side seams of the uniform tunic. He was content to avoid small talk if she was. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d had nothing to say to one another during these impromptu tailoring sessions. Every now and then he glanced at her, each time finding her staring listlessly into the surface of her cooling tea, that small dimple above her eyebrow a sign of turbulent waters under the surface.

“I used to be so damned sure of everything,” she said, looking directly at him for the first time. “We were right. All of you were wrong, and we were going to teach you that by spilling as much of your blood as we could until you decided what you took wasn’t worth the price.”

“I heard the murderer was a Cardassian,” he said neutrally. He could never predict where she was going with anything, whether she’d blow up at him and storm off or surprise him with one of her rare glimpses of vulnerability.

“He was,” she said. “I don’t know how you do it,” she abruptly switched tacks. “Live here every day surrounded by people who hate you. No matter how many people you manage to charm or how many you eat your meals with, it’s a small number compared to the ones who look at you and see the face of evil.”

Irritation lodged beneath his scales. He didn’t care to hear this. What did she know of his isolation? “Major,” he said, a cautionary tone in his voice.

“Prin thought I was evil,” she said flatly, “to the point he intended to cut the baby out to save him from me.”

Garak felt an eye ridge draw lower, an involuntary flinch, and glanced up at her again. “I hope you don’t believe all Cardassians would choose such extreme measures.”

“No, I know they wouldn’t. That’s not the point.” She raked impatient fingers through her hair. “The point is that he was completely convinced that I was evil because of things I did during the occupation. All he could see was the violence.”

He heard what she didn’t say. Did he want to have this conversation with her? To what end? Would it be like the time in his quarters with his deciding to provoke her and her storming out? He frowned and turned the tunic in hand to start on the other side. “It’s hard when you see your own reflection unexpectedly, isn’t it?” he asked without looking up again. There. That should determine the course they’d take. His question could just as easily be provocation as commiseration. Which way would she blow?

“It’s almost impossible. I haven’t...” She pressed her lips together tightly and tried again. “I’m not really sleeping. I keep going around and around with everything he said, how I ruined his life, how things I did in the past almost led to this baby’s death.” She cupped a protective hand at the lower curve of her belly. “I always said to myself that it didn’t matter. That they _chose_ to come here.” Pain surfaced in her voice. “But that isn’t really true, is it? Most of those soldiers and civilian support had no more choice in it than we did. They were just...victims of a greedy, short-sighted government.”

Garak sighed and allowed his hands to still. “I’m not sure what you want me to tell you, Major. I can’t tell if you want my scorn or my sympathy.”

She laced her hands together around her mug. “I guess I just want to sit a little while with somebody who knows his hands are dirty and has somehow found a way to live with it.”

_Is that what you think I’ve done?_ he thought. His faint smile showed only acceptance. If believing the lie was comforting, he saw no reason to take it away from her. For a short time, the only sound between them was the ripping of the stitches.

She began to twist the mug back and forth. The handle hit her thumb only to reverse direction. “I sometimes think that’s why I’m with Shakaar,” she said. “That...Prophets, it sounds so crazy to say this aloud.”

He heard the threat of tears in the way her throat tightened. His hands reflexively tightened in response. He forced them back to methodical duty.

“That only someone as violent as I am could ever truly want me.” Her eyes were far too shiny, her smile more a clench of teeth.

“That doesn’t explain Vedek Bareil,” he said.

Her laughter sounded pained. “Nothing explains Antos. He—” 

“Was a saint?” Garak interrupted her. He ripped a final stitch and let the tunic rest in his lap, hands loose atop it. “You know better. A good man, certainly, perhaps better than many either of us has known, but he had a history, didn’t he?”

She looked conflicted, slipping off the stool to pace and then stopping not too far away from him with one hand against the wall for a lean. “He took the blame for something he didn’t do to help someone important escape scandal. No, Antos wasn’t... He wasn’t violent like Shakaar and I were. He never enjoyed it.”

“But he knew you did,” Garak pressed.

She looked away, nodding and smiling again. He was quickly coming to hate those smiles that weren’t smiles. They tugged at him far too much and tried to call out similar painful truths. He didn’t want to identify with her. “He knew,” she said. “And he always told me... He always said, ‘Nerys, I don’t love you in spite of anything. I love you because of everything.’” Her laughter strangled back a threatening sob. “I will be _so glad_ when I’m done with these hormones. Can you believe this?” She swiped at her eyes and her nose and looked everywhere but directly at him.

He could have told her how Julian had once said something similar to him and how at the time he’d been foolish enough to believe it, could have shared his anger and disappointment that it turned out to be a lie, and not the fun kind of lie, or the interesting kind of lie, but the purely hurtful kind of lie that pointed to a greater truth, that there were irredeemable people in the world and for those people there would never be love or peace. He should know. He was one of them. 

Looking at her in that instant, he couldn’t believe that she was like him. She was entirely too distraught over it. “I believe,” he said carefully, “that if you are with Shakaar out of fear that he’s who you deserve and not because he’s who you want, then you’re doing a grave disservice to both of you.”

“I had who I wanted. Look how great that turned out.” She sighed and made her way back to the stool. “I’m sorry. It’s selfish of me to go on like this when things didn’t work out for you and Julian, either.”

“My fault,” he said simply. “I should have known a human doctor would never be able to stomach the sorts of things any true son of Cardassia would do with the right incentive.”

“At first I hated you for what you tried to do and thought you went way too far, but...” She shrugged helplessly. “I’d have done anything for Bajor, and I did. I did a lot of really violent, ruthless things without losing a minute of sleep over it the second I hit my cot. And I don’t know if I should be glad or angry with myself that if it happened today, I couldn’t say what I’d do anymore. I’m changing into someone I don’t recognize. I don’t know how to feel about that.”

He reached his limit, hearing some of his own thinking reflected back to him like this. If he allowed her to continue, who knew what personal secrets he’d let slip? “Well, I have a suggestion,” he said.

“Yeah?” She eyed him warily.

“Allow me to replicate you another tea. That one has gotten cold.”

_Julian  
Internment Camp 371_

It felt like every single guard’s eyes were on him as he walked. The entire commons held an air of unreality for him, the bad lighting, the stench so pervasive he had to work to notice it, Cardassians off to one side going through their routine exercises, Romulans off to another talking among themselves, the Markalian seated on an old fuel barrel making another set of dice. The same as yesterday and yet completely different, because today could be the last day he saw any of it. As a site for last stands went, he wouldn’t have chosen it. There was no glamor, no sense of greater purpose.

It would have been nice to see Garak one last time, if for no other reason than to tell him what an ass he was being about everything and how stupid it was to squander connections based on worry about what would happen tomorrow. _Look,_ he thought, _the worst has happened. Did shutting me out make Cardassia safer? You happier? Me more effective?_ He snorted a soft, bitter sound. That was enough of that. There were people counting on him today.

He passed the dust showers, two sets of barracks, and then casually settled his back against the wall to his left and allowed himself to sink down to a seat with one leg extended and the other tucked in close, bent at the knee. If they were where they were supposed to be, Branagh and Murak were in the barracks closest to him making a show of patching up their differences.

He thought of Tain laboring in the alcove, how furious he’d likely be if he knew what they had planned. At this point it wasn’t about him anymore, but Martok, not that the Klingon would be any happier to hear it. If he ever made it back to practicing medicine in a decent facility, he decided he would personally thank each and every patient who allowed him to treat them without fighting him every step of the way. Today, it felt like a very big “if.”

He could no longer see the grouping of Cardassians and Romulans from his vantage, but he could hear them. Varal’s voice carried to him, an offensive comment about the stench of spoonheads and the fact that they still had one working shower if they’d bother to use it. Sela’s harsh laughter was quickly taken up by, he assumed, the rest of the Romulans.

Rubbing his hands down his face, he shook his head and climbed to his feet. A Jem’Hadar guard approached him from further down the wide corridor. Julian shot him a wry, rueful expression that he flatly ignored and kept going. Edging closer to the barracks door, he dropped his fist down by his side and gave three quick knocks.

Murak and Branagh slipped out. The three started down the corridor away from the rising sounds of heated argument. Murak slowed and stopped before what looked like nothing more than the juncture of two wall panels. He passed his hand down the right one and crooked his index finger. With a subtle downward press, he revealed a small control panel.

“Cloaked?” Julian asked, surprised. “Something so small?”

“It would seem so, Doctor,” the scientist said. He dragged his finger in a fairly simple pattern. The seam in the wall split to reveal a narrow corridor beyond, dimly illuminated in purplish light. “Careless of them not to use biometric verification.”

“From what you’ve said they see us as about one step away from stupid,” Branagh said. “Or we’re just not that important. Let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth. Come on.” He stepped to the front to take the lead. The door closed behind them with a soft hiss.

Although he had his misgivings about Branagh’s usefulness around Dominion technology, Julian held his tongue. If Branagh’s main career had been breaching security networks for heists as he’d finally confessed, he was better suited for this than either Julian or Murak. He kept expecting laser detection or security cameras in the hallway. Branagh glanced back and caught him craning his neck. He snorted a laugh. “Utility corridor, Doc. You can relax until we hear somebody coming and got nowhere to duck and hide.”

_How comforting,_ he thought dryly.

The corridor curved steadily to the right. Branagh held up a hand as the first opening in the wall came up on their left. He waved Murak ahead as the best of the three at moving silently. The Vulcan carefully rolled his feet from the outside to the inside with each cautious step and took a quick glance around the open doorway. He motioned to them that it was clear. All three hurried into the cramped chamber containing one cot, a few ration bars, and a monitoring station with a dark screen. Murak tucked the ration bars into his voluminous shirt, the least likely to show any bulges.

Branagh ducked behind the standalone station and fiddled free a back panel. “Heh. Won’t be getting any use outta this old thing,” he said. “Circuits are all fried.” He snapped the panel back in place, glanced out into the corridor, and started forward with them again. Julian kept his attention as much behind them as ahead. If they had company from that direction, he’d be the first in line of sight.

They came to a t-junction. “Well?” Branagh glanced back to Murak.

“I did not see this in the minds of either of the guards. It was not something of importance to them.”

“Well, that’s just great. I—” 

“Stop talking,” Julian hissed. “There’s someone in the corridor to the right.”

They froze and listened. Murak gave the faintest of nods. He heard it, too. The footsteps stopped seconds later, the tread lighter than he’d come to expect from a Jem’Hadar. Worried that whoever it was had heard them and was standing frozen in indecision the same as they, he heard a sound that knotted his stomach with dread, the pneumatic hiss of the door behind them and swiftly approaching boots. “Whatever we’re going to do, we’d better do it now,” he whispered. “We’re out of time.”

_Garak  
Garak’s Quarters_

Despite its temptations, Garak ignored the call of kanar. He had been thinking ever since his unexpected conversation with the major, the things that she had said uncomfortable to hear from someone else. It was so easy to see that she was making a mistake with Shakaar. If he could see that with such clarity, why were his issues with Julian murkier? Was it possible he had been wrong to pull away? Was it that he felt more afraid being seen for who he was and accepted for it than rejected?

Of course that was part of it. He could see it in how he had deflected her conversation back to safer territory. She would have listened to him tonight, to anything he cared to get off his chest and would likely have given him decent advice. The moment didn’t have to be one-sided. He’d made it so, and she had allowed it because she was uncomfortable, too.

What of Julian’s evasiveness? The parts of him he held back? Maybe that was another blind spot he needed to acknowledge. How was he any different? Why did he hypocritically expect more openness than he had allowed himself to give up to this point? Maybe it was time to clear the air. If he was going to start giving Major Kira advice about her love life, the least he could do was to be someone successful enough in his for it to sound credible.

Before he could lose his nerve, he crossed to his comm system and hailed the infirmary. Frendel patched him through to Julian. “Garak?” Julian’s face onscreen was the picture of distraction. He reached off to the side to make an adjustment to something that beeped.

“I can see you’re busy right now. Would you let me know when you’re free? I need to speak to you. It’s...important.”

“Yes,” he said. “It may be late before I can get back to you.”

“That’s all right. I’ll be awake.” He ended his transmission and began to pace, already regretting his impulse. His behavior toward most of his friends lately was unjustified and cruel. He knew it, yet felt powerless to stop himself. The Founder’s threats about Cardassia had changed everything for him, thrown all of his adaptations to life on the station into question. Nothing in his upbringing taught him how to deal with being liked or trusted. Anyone he had ever known who seemed to be favorably inclined toward him was only using him as a means to an end. That point was driven home over and over again throughout his entire upbringing and career.

_By Cardassians,_ he thought. _None of these people are Cardassians._ Wasn’t that the rub of it? It was easier to be used by his own people than...whatever all of this was with the aliens surrounding him. His people made sense. None of the rest of this did. Worse, it was distracting from his duty to help his people any way that he could.

He intended to have one glass of kanar to settle his nerves. By the time Julian’s hail came through after midnight, he was far too drunk to have that conversation. He allowed the computer to accept a message instead and put off listening to it until his morning hangover. It was a voice transmission only, saying nothing more than, “I’m sorry to have missed you. Come by the infirmary in the morning if you must, or we can save it for lunch.”

No matter how many times he replayed it, he heard nothing to connect to, no worry, no true regret, no irritation with him for not answering the hail. It didn’t matter that he had been the one not to talk to him in the end. There was a time Julian would have come by or expressed more concern about what may have been wrong. He did this. He hammered home a point and was now upset he couldn’t take it back once made. It was one more example of how he fell into bad habits when he shut out good influences. 

He readied himself for breakfast with Odo and wondered what might come out of his mouth this morning. Odo had so far tolerated his jabs. He doubted that would last long. The changeling was more sensitive than he let on and as prickly as Garak about outright rejection. “You will behave,” he told his reflection then headed out into the habitat ring.

Twenty minutes after seating himself at the Replimat, he replicated himself a tray and ate his food in glum silence. It was possible Odo was sidetracked by work. It had happened before. If that was the case, the constable would contact him later with an apology, and they’d eat together tomorrow. _If he doesn’t contact you?_ He decided he wouldn’t contact him, either, not out of pique or pettiness but to show that he wasn’t some dreadfully needy creature who couldn’t handle an occasional hiccup in routine.

Finishing his breakfast, he recycled the tray and headed down to his shop, determined that normal life should continue no matter how unsettled he felt underneath his placid surface. He still managed brisk business, and as his lunch date with the doctor wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow, he didn’t try to contact him again. He ate both lunch and dinner alone, read before bed, and slept with few dreams he could recall. 

He’d had no more disturbing visions or dreams since he started taking the medication Julian synthesized for him. As it was one of the few he’d ever taken that didn’t have horrible side effects, he wasn’t eager to finish out the prescription. He wasn’t convinced that he wouldn’t see a return of the symptoms despite Julian’s assurances that the condition didn’t work that way.

Upon Odo’s second day of skipping breakfast, he decided it was time for at least a polite inquiry as to what might be wrong. The officer in security informed him Odo was in the science lab and hadn’t specifically stated he didn’t want to be disturbed. Intrigued, Garak made his way toward a part of the station he almost never had occasion to visit.

“Can I help you?” a Starfleet researcher he didn’t recognize stood from her terminal and approached him. Everything about her demeanor said she didn’t think he should be there.

He sighed inwardly. “I’m not here for Federation secrets today. I’m looking for Constable Odo.”

He heard Odo’s voice from the next room. “It’s all right, Ensign Lowell. Send him back.”

She gestured and returned to her seat. Garak inclined his head and passed into the next room. He found Odo bent over a glowing round surface with an amorphous blob of golden goo lying inert atop it. He automatically tensed. Another Founder? Here right now? Why wasn’t the entire station on lockdown?

Odo looked at him with an expression he’d never seen on him before. Tenderness. Wonder. “It’s a baby,” he said softly. “Quark thought it was dead, but... It’s not. Come see.”

He ruthlessly pushed down the instinct screaming for him to find the nearest phaser and vaporize the thing before it could become a threat. He doubted Odo would forgive him, or anyone else on the station for that matter. He’d be looking at worse than six months in a Deep Space Nine holding cell, he was sure. His people couldn’t afford his incarceration. Stepping to Odo’s side, he said in a genial tone, “I suppose this explains why you’ve missed breakfast two days in a row.”

The constable looked a little sheepish. “Yes. I’m sorry about that. I’ve been a little preoccupied. I’m...” He shook his head and smiled. “Garak, I’m _happy._ This was how I was when I was found. I... I have an opportunity to give someone a better start at things than I had.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” he said quickly. He was having a hard enough time maintaining proximity to the thing without lashing out. Hearing Odo’s obvious attachment to it made it nearly unbearable and drove home a point he should have noticed much sooner. No matter what the Founders had done to punish Odo, he was still one of them. He would always be one of them. _You’re such a fool,_ he thought in dismay.

“I appreciate the understanding,” he said and turned back to the blob. “Look,” he said, gesturing at Garak. “This is a friend. My friend Garak. Can you wave hello to Garak?” He glanced back at Garak. “It hasn’t moved yet. I’m sure it’s finding this whole situation very confusing. I know I did. I had no idea that people were speaking to me or what they wanted. Then when Doctor Mora began torturing me, I was very frightened. That will never happen to this changeling.”

Garak knew his fleeting smile was anything but convincing.

“It’s all right, Garak,” Odo said, misreading it. “It doesn’t pain me to talk about these things. They happened. It’s important that people understand that, that alien life forms aren’t lab experiments. Would you say hello to it, please? I want it to get used to seeing different faces and to know that it’s safe here.”

Garak shook his head and took two quick steps back. “I’m not good with infants, I’m afraid. I’m just glad to see that everything is all right.” He continued to retreat backward and turned swiftly to stride from the lab. By the time he reached the main corridor, he was close to hyperventilating. It felt disconcertingly like one of his claustrophobia attacks. In a way, perhaps it was like that. Everything around him constrained him from doing what he believed should be done, killing that Founder before it could return home and share what it knew of the rest of them. More all the time, if Odo had his way.

_How could you be so stupid? Breakfast with him every morning. Showing off in the runabout on the way to the Gamma Quadrant. Do you honestly think he’ll never go home?_ He had worked himself into a near panic by the time he reached his shop, late for opening now and with a couple of customers waiting for him outside the doors. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” he said. He had no idea how convincing he was or not.

Less than an hour later, Aroya paid a visit. He could tell by how she was dressed that she was on her way to work, although a stop by his shop was well out of her way. Her usually sunny disposition seemed subdued. He doubted it was about his outburst at her restaurant. He had apologized sincerely after recovering from his ordeal, and she had seemed to understand.

“How would you feel about dinner tonight?” she asked.

“At the restaurant?” he asked. He didn’t believe he was up for a crowd.

“No,” she shook her head. “At my place. It has been a long time since we’ve had a proper visit. Mayna is more than capable of running things when I’m away. I could use the break.”

“It’s a gracious offer. I have no plans, so I see no reason why not.” He sensed this wasn’t purely social. One of the down sides of playing matchmaker was that one was then expected to stay involved with what one helped create. If that wasn’t a thought to make him lose his appetite, he didn’t know what was.

Her scrutiny sharpened, and she stepped closer, going so far as to reach across the counter and touch his hand resting there. “I wish I knew what has you so sad lately.”

“No, you don’t,” he said with the sort of smile and withdrawal of contact that usually ended such lines of inquiry.

“Yes,” she pressed, “I do. The fact that you don’t want to tell me doesn’t change how I feel.” She stepped back to show she wasn’t going to take the dissent further than that. “I need to get to work. 2000 hours all right for you?”

He nodded. “I’ll see you then. I’ll bring the wine.” He watched her retreat and sagged slightly. He had the feeling that his withdrawal from Odo was going to cost him this association, too. It was a pity, because he liked her and found her easily cheerful presence a balm on difficult days. _Everything comes full circle eventually._ It was something his mother used to say to him during painful times in his upbringing. It was no more comforting now than it was then.

**Part II**

_Julian  
Internment Camp 371_

Branagh gestured at Murak and Julian to handle whoever was to their right and that he’d look to the left. They had to go forward right now or risk being pinned. The three of them leaped into the juncture. A Vorta stood about four meters from them to the right, his purple eyes rounding in surprise. Julian and Murak surged forward just as he turned to run. Julian reached him first, diving to wrap both arms around his legs and tackle him forcefully.

Murak dropped onto both of them to clamp a hand to the side of the Vorta’s face. Julian couldn’t control his shudder. No matter how much he may have hated their captors, he couldn’t wish that violation on anyone. He heard Branagh running up behind them. “Left is clear,” he hissed. “Still got a bogey coming up from behind. Where we going?”

Julian shook his head. He released the Vorta and disentangled himself from Murak. Both the Vulcan and the Vorta stood together. Murak gripped him at the shoulder and kept his other hand in place. “This way,” the Vorta said, sounding strained.

They hurried as stealthily as they could down the straight corridor until they came to a door to their right. The Vorta stopped and pressed his finger to a pad, bent forward, and allowed his eye to be scanned. The door opened, the four of them crowding in and letting it shut behind them. A ketracel white storage locker, Julian saw immediately. “We should be safe from any Jem’Hadar in here,” he said low. “There’s no way they would be allowed easy access to this room.”

“Fine and dandy, but this crap doesn’t do us any good,” Branagh said in disgust.

When Murak spoke, the Vorta’s lips moved, too. Julian had to look away. “Deyos is in charge of this facility. I am...pulling...all of the locations we need from his mind. We will need him with us, however. Unlike the entrance, most of the command center has biometric security. There are also irregularly timed patrols. Every moment we spend here we risk exposure and elimination. There is something he is keeping from me.”

Both Deyos’ and Murak’s features contorted in pain. Julian and Branagh both looked away. The doctor took a closer look at Branagh. Was it possible he’d once been subjected to a mind meld? Was that the reason he hated Murak?

“Keep those hairy eyeballs to yourself, Doc,” Branagh said in irritation.

“Sorry,” Julian muttered. There was no circulation in the close room. He began searching for any signs of ventilation and found none. “Bad news. We can’t stay in here for long. We’ll suffocate.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” Branagh said. “The greenbloods always get what they’re after. Never takes ‘em that long, inn’t that right, you rat bastard?” he addressed Murak.

The scientist either ignored him or couldn’t answer. After a few seconds more, the Vorta let out a horrific scream. Julian clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle it. Blood trickled from his nostrils in a thin stream over the doctor’s knuckles.

“They have a subspace transmitter,” Murak said. Julian felt the Vorta’s lips move against his palm and bile rising in the back of his throat. “Deyos uses it for regular up-links to the Vorta cloning bank.”

“We should go there first,” Branagh said, “get a signal out.”

“No,” Julian said. “It’s likely to be the most heavily guarded place on this asteroid. I agree we need to get there, but not before we get medicine.” By this point, the idea of trying to carry enough food or water out of the area to make a difference seemed laughable. They could manage a few ration bars but likely not much more than that. He was determined not to leave without antibiotics for Martok and another couple of doses of Benjisidrine, regardless of what Tain said. He could refuse to take it. He couldn’t stop Julian from offering it.

“The doctor is correct,” Murak said. “It will be difficult to reach the transmitter. Also, once we are missed at head count, they will search every centimeter of this facility to find us. We must breach the infirmary first.”

“Are there any other Vorta here?” Julian asked.

“No. Deyos is the only one. They do not share responsibility well. They are a treacherous people, far more than any others I have encountered thus far and loyal only to their Founders.”

“Your knowledge will be invaluable to Starfleet once we get that transmission out,” Julian said. He had to shove aside his pity for Deyos. It was life or death, and he hadn’t chosen this incarceration.

“It is worse than you know,” Murak said. “I will tell you more later. For now we should move. The infirmary is deeper within the command center, and patrol paths cross these corridors.”

“Too bad we didn’t find the weapon locker,” Branagh said. “Couldn’t hurt to even the odds.”

“The weapon locker is constantly under guard,” Murak said after a moment. “The odds of breaching it without one or more of us being vaporized are ninety-two point three seven to one.”

“I don’t like those odds,” Julian said. “Let’s stick to our plan.”

Branagh shrugged. “Fine by me. I’ll take point. You bring up the rear. Much as I hate it, we gotta keep these two safe. I guess that biometric scan won’t work if the Vorta is dead, huh? Be a lot easier just to take a finger and eye.”

“It will not,” Murak confirmed.

“Didn’t hurt to ask.” He pressed the button to open the door, took a quick glance both ways, and gestured them back out again. 

Julian had never felt more exposed as he followed. He could calculate odds, too. He didn’t like theirs after factoring in the irregular patrols. He liked the odds for the Vorta even less. They couldn’t possibly allow him to survive and upload his information to the Dominion.

_Garak  
Chalan’s Quarters_

Garak wiped his mouth and removed his napkin from its tuck at the neck of his tunic to set it aside. “I feel almost guilty enjoying such a delicious meal without compensating you.”

“Nonsense, your company is compensation.” She stood to clear the table. He knew better than to offer help. He had been firmly chastised for it the first time he dined with her months ago. Throughout the evening, he had sensed that the polite conversation was her way of trying to work up to something she wanted to ask him. He went along with her without trying to press. Things were usually more interesting that way.

After handing him a digestif of her own recipe, she made one for herself and gestured for him to join her on her cozy sofa. He sat and took a sip of the drink. “You should tell Quark I said your skills rival his in mixing beverages.”

She laughed. “I’ll tell him no such thing, but you’re welcome to.” The laughter was quick to fade. She tapped her finger at the edge of her glass, her warm brown eyes contemplative and perhaps a bit sad. “Have you met the baby yet?” she asked.

He nodded and used taking another drink as an excuse to shut his eyes. He feared his inability to disguise the panic and frustration the thought of it evoked.

She cleared her throat and also took a sip from her glass. “I’m... I’m not so sure things are going to work out between us. We’ve reached this strange holding pattern for a while now. At first I thought it was just that he was a gentleman and a little shy. Then I thought—this doesn’t go beyond these walls, understand?”

He nodded, curious in spite of himself. “You have my complete discretion, Aroya.”

“Thank you. I thought it had to do with Major Kira. I’ve seen how he looks at her, even when he’s walking with me.” She paused as though to allow him to negate her assertion. When he didn’t, she nodded as though he had confirmed her suspicions. “Now, I’m not sure it’s that, or at least not just that.”

“He’s a changeling,” Garak said for her. He could see where she was going with this after her mention of the infant. “Being stuck as a solid doesn’t change that. It doesn’t curb his longing to be among his own kind. We’re poor substitutes.” If there was more bitterness in his voice than he intended, he couldn’t be faulted after his realizations earlier in the day. Recognition that he and Odo didn’t differ much in this regard only made him angrier, not more understanding.

“I don’t think I’d have put it quite that way, but yes,” she said. She held her glass between both hands, rested atop her knees. “I’m thinking of returning to Bajor.”

“The restaurant is going so well,” he said, surprised.

“It is.” She shifted to tuck one foot beneath her and turned more to face him. “It was always my dream to own a restaurant with Tolbi. I thought doing it on my own in his memory would be a fresh start, that being away from Hathon would help me, and for a while it did.”

“If things were working out better with Odo, would that make a difference?”

She shook her head slightly and drained the rest of the scant contents of her drink. “I’ve asked myself that in the past few days. I don’t think so. I might have been tempted to ask him to come back with me, though.” She chuckled softly. “Such silly things we’ll allow ourselves to dream when we don’t have evidence to contradict it. No, wherever his path is meant to lead, it’s not with me, and it’s not to Bajor.”

“I’ll miss you.”

“You’ll miss my korfa fish, you mean,” she said, grinning in her tease.

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” he returned the tease in kind. Yes. He would miss her korfa fish, too. “What will you do?”

“Well, I sold the farm to start the restaurant. It has done well enough that I can likely sell the restaurant to buy a farm, or I may live in the city instead and try my hand at catering. I need dirt under my feet and daylight on my face. I’m not cut out for life on a space station. It was a good break, something I needed at the time.” She set her glass aside. “You would always be welcome to come visit.”

He smiled in a way that said he wouldn’t and cared just enough not to lie to her about it. “We can write. I enjoy letters.” He thought perhaps he even meant it.

“I’m terrible about writing.”

So this was a good-bye of sorts, or the beginning of one. He didn’t think she would sell the restaurant and leave the station the very next day. He hated prolonged good-byes. He drained his glass and set it next to hers. “Were you hoping I’d talk you out of leaving Odo?” he asked.

Her eyes shifted guiltily to the side. “A little, I think. It’s for the best you didn’t. It would only have postponed the inevitable. I’ve never seen him happier than with that baby. I hope he’s happy with his life and finds a way to make everything work out.”

“I suppose that depends on one’s definition of working out,” he said. He stood and offered her a hand up.

She grasped his fingers lightly, stood on tip-toe, and kissed his cheek, an airy brush that tickled his micro-scales. “I hope everything works out for you, too,” she added. She held his hand a touch longer than the dictates of simple politeness allowed. “Talk to someone. It doesn’t have to be me. Just...someone. Will you? I worry about you.”

“It’s misplaced.” He squeezed her hand and let her go without giving answer to the rest of it. “Now walk me out. I’m full, and comfortable, and feel as though I could get a good night’s sleep. You won’t leave without a proper good-bye?”

“I’m throwing a party. I fully expect for you to be there.” She stopped at her door and leaned in the frame when it opened to offer him a final small wave. 

As had so often happened in the past, his mind dictated one thing, his feet another. Rather than heading back to his own quarters, he found himself outside Julian’s with nothing to excuse it beyond what Aroya had said. He should talk to someone. He lifted his hand twice before activating the chime.

Julian’s voice came over the comm. “Enter.”

He stepped across the threshold to see him still in his uniform. “A late night?” he asked.

Julian nodded and started toward his bedroom. “If you’ll give me a moment to change, I’d appreciate it. Nerys has been in labor all day. I only just got home.”

“Oh? Has she given birth?” he asked. He’d have to send a gift, or perhaps that would be a misstep as it wasn’t her baby. He’d have to give it some thought.

“Not yet.” He could hear Julian moving around behind the closed door. “The chief and Shakaar decided it was the perfect time to get into a pissing contest and ruined her relaxation.”

Garak rolled his eyes and headed over toward the chair near the sofa. He took a seat. “On Cardassia, the fathers are forbidden from the birthing chamber.”

“Nerys wanted both O’Briens there. I would have thought Shakaar would be a comfort.” He emerged from the bedroom not in pajamas but one of his less flattering outfits. He settled on the far side of the couch and rested his head against the back of it. “I left a message for you.”

“I know. I thought I’d be awake longer.” Now that he was here, he wasn’t sure where to start, or how. Winging it had always ended in utter disaster when it came to them. “I... I know I don’t need to tell you I’m very bad at this. We have enough history between us for ample evidence of just how bad.”

“What are you trying to say?” Julian lifted his head, his look perplexed.

If he said what he was thinking, he’d just bungle it. He stood and closed the distance to reach for his hands. The doctor allowed him to pull him up but stiffened when he wrapped his arms around him. “Garak...” he said.

“Will you shut up? I’m trying to apologize.” He kissed him then, full and warm, pouring as much of his pent feelings into it as he could without edging into desperation. They had connected on this level before without words. He’d felt it profoundly from Julian. He could only hope that now his former lover would feel it in turn and understand he’d made a mistake. Although his lips were soft and pliant, Julian wasn’t returning the kiss. Garak drew back just in time to catch a flash of unmistakeable revulsion in his eyes before the doctor managed to mask it. 

He pulled away so quickly he almost tripped himself on the low coffee table. “I’m...sorry. I...”

“I think you should just go,” Julian said without meeting his gaze. “And I don’t think it would be wise to continue our lunches for the foreseeable future. I’m sorry if I led you on or gave you reason to expect we’d be anything but friends after everything that happened in the Gamma Quadrant.”

Anger exploded in him so suddenly it nearly left him panting. “After the Gamma Quadrant?” he demanded. “When you practically begged me not to shut you out? The least you can do is to admit I hurt your pride. If this is revenge, fine; you’re welcome to it. Just don’t stand there and pretend I put you off with what I did. I know better.”

“Whatever you need to think, Garak. Now I suggest you leave before I have to force the issue.”

He couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He hadn’t been so humiliated since Palandine and Lokar played him for an utter fool. He found himself running to reach his quarters. They felt like no safe haven. _Revulsion._ He’d never read it so strongly from another, not the Bajorans who still hated Cardassians, not Tain after he’d made his final, near-fatal error that bought his exile.

He flew into a rage, smashing almost everything he owned that wasn’t bolted down or part of the station. The one thing he didn’t touch was Ziyal’s painting, something in him possessing the presence of mind to realize that would only bring regret. He didn’t know who had him angrier, himself or Julian. He only knew that if he never saw or spoke to him again, it would be too soon.

The wreckage of his room drove him out. It reminded him too much of the ruins of his shop after the explosion. He didn’t think there was anywhere on the station he could be right now that wasn’t complete anathema. He was enough in control of himself to know he couldn’t steal a runabout, not just to fly aimlessly with the only real destination in mind “away.” Against his instincts, he headed for the turbolift to take him to the Promenade. Quark’s Bar.

He sat at a back table in the shadows, too filled with rage and rejection to make room for the kanar Frool delivered. Tain’s voice was strong in his head, lesson after lesson, recrimination after recrimination, a brutal and thorough tally of all of the ways he had betrayed his upbringing and left himself open to devastation. He didn’t hear Leeta come up beside him. Her hand on his upper back was another goad, a demonstration of how far he’d fallen that someone not trying to be stealthy could get to him. He opened his mouth with the intention of snarling at her to leave him alone. His throat tightened on the words. He had to settle for a sharp shake of his head.

“We can go to your shop, or we can go to my quarters,” she said, her look indicating she wasn’t giving him another option.

She didn’t understand. Both his shop and her quarters were haunted by memories of Julian he couldn’t bring himself to face. He thought if he remained stubbornly rooted to the spot, she’d give up on the idea of getting him out of there.

“My quarters, then,” she said.

Her posture alone put such expectant pressure on him that he found himself standing against all sense and acquiescing. For a time, the journey was a near step-by-step reversal of his trip down, until they reached her level of the habitat ring. _You may as well finish the disaster started at the beginning of the day and alienate her, too,_ he thought viciously.

She was exhausted. He read it in how she held her shoulders and the set of her eyes. Off work she didn’t project an air of cheerful enthusiasm she didn’t feel. She reserved that for the Dabo table. She keyed her entry code and gestured him in ahead of her, almost as though she feared he’d break and run if she left him to his own devices. He couldn’t look at her dining table or her sofa. His fingers tangled into the fabric of his trousers. This was a mistake. He could feel her gaze on him.

“Sit,” she said. Whether through observation or chance, she directed him toward a newer piece of furniture, a comfortable chair offset from the sofa at a pleasing angle.

He took the seat, ramrod straight, and watched her circle around behind him. There was no one else on the station at this point with the exception of Ziyal that he’d tolerate in that position unchallenged.

“Lean back.” He twisted from his torso to try to get a better look at her, completely off kilter. Her expectant look decided him more effectively than if she had tried to force the issue. He leaned until his back touched the cushion, although he didn’t give it any of his weight.

“Leeta,” he said uncertainly.

“Hush. This is for your own good.” Her fingers sifted into his hair, long, soft strokes. It was so shocking he nearly bolted back up from the chair, but then she soothed them over his forehead as well. He felt his eyes begin to sting, stubbornly keeping them open and tilting his head back at an angle that wouldn’t allow anything to fall. He noticed she took care not to touch his neck ridges or the backs of his ears. It allowed him to relax more than he would’ve otherwise. Whatever she intended, it wasn’t seduction.

The knot in his chest and throat built to unbearable levels. All of his efforts to stop the tears from slipping from the corners of his eyes and pooling in the deep-set sockets of his eye ridges failed. She said nothing of it. He felt warm palms cupping his cheeks, fingertips sweeping beneath his chin and back along the line of his jaw. Firmer pressure now. After a time, she draped forward over the back of the chair and allowed her arms to hang down so that she could loosely embrace him across his chest. Her cheek rested against the side of his head.  
“You’re still my hero,” she whispered to him.

He bit down on his tongue to hold in a betraying sound. Reaching up, he squeezed both of her forearms with his arms crossed at the wrists. He knew it was too tight for comfort. He held there until he could get his breathing back under control and trust his voice. “You’re ridiculously sentimental.”

“You’re back,” she said sweetly, kissed the side of his head, and released him with a final press. “Slumber party? I bought a new Kotra board last week. We can stay up irresponsibly, gossip, and give ourselves good reasons to be grumpy at work tomorrow.”

“I can think of nothing I’d rather do this evening, or should I say morning? It is disreputably late,” he said. _You don’t always win,_ he directed to the voice inside that was an enemy as implacable as any Founder. For now, the crisis was past, although he wasn’t looking forward to cleaning up the mess in his quarters.

_Julian  
Internment Camp 371_

Every moment in the purple-lit corridors brought them closer to discovery. They passed into a larger room of tables holding weapon and equipment parts, nothing whole or functional, Julian noted. Branagh heard the door ahead of them start to activate and threw himself backward to shove all of them under the nearest table. Murak dragged the Vorta with an implacable grip. Julian didn’t fit, forced to dive under a smaller surface. He saw the lower bodies of the first Jem’Hadar come through the doorway and march closer. Pressed back as far against the wall as he could get, he lay utterly motionless and held his breath. He saw Deyos’ look of fierce concentration, the hatred in the narrowed purple eyes. Murak looked no less focused but terribly strained. The Vorta’s lips moved alone.

The harrowing moment passed with the door they’d just come through sliding shut behind the last soldier. Julian let out his breath and gulped in another, his chest burning. “Will you be able to control him?” he asked Murak.

“Don’t distract him,” Branagh said. He helped Murak get Deyos back on his feet and strode forward doggedly. They passed through what may have been a training room next and then into a side corridor. The code for the infirmary door was more complex than some of the others. Julian watched Deyos’ pale hand going through the motions much slower than before. Was he somehow adapting to the Vulcan’s control? Was there a chance he’d be able to force him out? He could only hope they could get to the subspace transmitter before that came to pass.

To call it an infirmary was overstatement. It was little more than a glorified closet with packed shelves lined with boxes and bottles, plus one tiny refrigerated cubby with a clear door.

He slipped around his companions to get to the crowded shelves. There was a surprising variety of medications suitable for treating a large number of species in the Alpha Quadrant. Why so much medicine when they seemed so unwilling to use it on any of their charges? _Experimentation, perhaps?_ He flinched away from the thought and refocused on the task at hand. Benjisidrine for Tain. He tucked three cylinders into his uniform jacket.

Now something for Martok. He scanned labels as quickly as he could, growing more concerned by the second. Where were the antibiotics? The only one he saw was corophizine, really not ideal for the deep bone infection Martok suffered. It was better than nothing and might serve to help him stave off opportunistic pathogens. He pocketed two courses of it and a hypospray. _Morphenolog for the pain,_ he thought. He swiped all they had, enough to last a week or so.

“We gotta go. Another patrol, and we won’t all fit in there.” Branagh said urgently.

Backing out, he took position. He could hear the footsteps behind them approaching quickly. He noticed Murak having to shove the Vorta along and stage whispered to Branagh to help him out. The spidery man grabbed Deyos by the wrist and hauled him forward. It seemed to Julian they were making too much noise. Was their enemy stomping his feet? 

“Do you hear that?” he heard from behind them.

He shoved Murak, and all of them broke into a disjointed, clumsy run, forced to stay clumped together to keep control of the Vorta. They turned a hard left and ran several more meters. Branagh overshot the control center door, fortunately stopped short by his grip on Deyos’ wrist. He had to release him to allow him to work the code.

The door hissed open just as the Jem’Hadar rounded the corner and let out a shout. “Go, go, go!” Julian shouted and shoved everyone ahead of him. He felt heat singe the back of his neck and smelled burning hair. As soon as he stumbled into the room, Branagh tore the entire control panel away. The door hissed shut.

“That should jam it. I don’t know how long! Whatever you’re gonna do, you better do it now.”

“Those weapons are unnecessary,” Deyos’ voice caught his attention. He turned to see the Vulcan and the Vorta facing down two Jem’Hadar looking uncertainly at both of them. “Lower them. I said lower them!” Glancing at each other, the two soldiers did so. Murak and Deyos stepped closer to them, the Vorta saying, “Get out of my way. I need to send a transmission.”

“But the prisoners...” one of the soldiers said.

“Are my concern! Do you dare question me? Yours is to obey.”

Julian made eye contact with Branagh, silent understanding passing between the two. They lunged almost as one, each using the crippling confusion of their enemies to their full advantage. As he had done in the dust shower, Julian clamped a hand over the Jem’Hadar’s rifle grip, only this time forcing him to fire upon his comrade. Both alien soldiers vaporized, leaving Julian and Branagh staring wide eyed at one another and hardly daring to believe their success.

The doctor turned toward Murak just in time to see the Vulcan give a sharp twist to Deyos’ neck. The bones cracked in sickening staccato. “We only need his hand for this,” the scientist said. “I would not have kept control of him for much longer.” He dragged the Vorta to the transmitter with both hands under his arms. “I need you to push his finger to that receptor,” he said.

Rushing to his side, Julian grabbed the dead hand and jammed the index finger onto the control. A red light pulsed. “It’s not working!”

“Too hard, Doctor. Try a gentler touch.”

The Vulcan’s calm was maddening. Julian tried again. It was difficult with Deyos at an awkward angle.

“They’re through!” Branagh barked just as the door hissed and three Jem’Hadar burst into the room. Branagh brought both fists down on top of the first rifle through the door, sending the shot wide.

“They have the Vorta!” one of the soldiers cried.

“He’s dead,” a second said. He planted his feet, aimed, and fired. Somehow, Murak managed to throw Deyos’ body into the shot, roll, and come up on the far side of the relay. Julian lunged at the second Jem’Hadar through the door. In the close quarters their rifles weren’t the advantage they’d be out in the open. He couldn’t match him strength for strength. He didn’t need to. He managed to twist him around and squeezed his own finger over the trigger, vaporizing the first soldier.

“That’s how you do—” Branagh never got to finish his sentence. The third shot him at point blank range.

“No!” Julian cried.

Murak came in hard and threw himself at the one who’d taken out Branagh. Julian had his hands full and was quickly losing his grip. It was a moment of pure chaos. He shifted his weight from pulling back to lunging forward and managed to drive the guard into his comrade. One of them hit the subspace relay. It exploded in a shower of white-hot sparks. Ketracel white splashed into Julian’s eyes. He screamed and clawed at his face. Disruptor fire superheated the air near his shoulder, scorching his uniform and blistering his skin beneath it.

He heard the snapping of neck bones a second time, two blasts fired in rapid succession, and he suddenly fell forward because there was nothing there any longer to grapple with. “Murak?” he rasped. “Murak!” He rubbed futilely at his eyes, hoping he hadn’t been blinded permanently. Surrounded by ominous silence, he crawled forward and felt with one hand until he contacted a boot. Hope gave way to despair. The body was a Jem’Hadar’s. He made a full circuit of the small room as quickly as he could manage. The only thing he could find was the one body and the wreckage of the relay. His conspirators were dead. If he couldn’t get out of that room and make his way back to the common area, he’d be next. 

**Part III**

_Garak  
The Promenade_

Garak’s night with Leeta was more than disreputably late. It had been a very long time indeed since he had chosen to forgo sleep altogether strictly to socialize. She was still a long way from beating him at Kotra. He could no longer say that she was inept or that her strategies were all ill conceived. She had a surprising head for numbers and quick calculations, and he recognized some of the masters’ strategies in how she organized her attacks. She’d been studying.

It was easier to focus on that part of the night than his near breakdown, or the way she handled him, a truly masterful strategy. In not asking him anything, she gave him no opportunity to lie, either to her or himself. It was unnerving to be given something he needed without having to wrest it by force or just go without.

He intended to bypass the Replimat, except he saw a face he’d not seen in many years, someone to whom he owed a small debt according to Julian’s account of the investigation of his abduction on Bajor. He slowed and changed direction, approaching Doctor Mora with his hands visible and relaxed. Who knew how the man might feel about Cardassians?

It took the Bajoran doctor some time to realize Garak stood nearby. He lifted his head from his study of a PADD and blinked in surprise. “Garak,” he said, his face creasing in a smile. “Do you know I still have those trousers after all this time?”

Pleased to be remembered beyond his time of need, Garak returned his smile in kind. “I hope you don’t still wear them. They’re out of fashion by over a decade.”

“I’m a doctor. I can get away with such things. Please, please sit,” he said with a gesture at the chair opposite him. “I could use the break.”

“Brushing up on changeling physiology and psychology?” Garak pulled out the chair and settled with his hands laced lightly on the tabletop.

Mora looked surprised. “I suppose I had forgotten how quickly news can travel on a space station. Yes, precisely so. I decided Odo would need my help whether he wants it or not.” A troubled expression flitted across his features.

“Things not going well, or...” he had found that sometimes if he left a question open-ended, it netted more productive results.

Mora’s closed lipped smile flattened, his gaze briefly dropping. “He resents me. I’m trying to recall if you were here when he was first found or arrived later.”

“My arrival was a bit later. He was already serving as Overseer by the time I opened my shop,” he said. Not that he hadn’t poked around in those files quite a bit since then. Odo knew a good deal about him thanks to how their paths continued to cross in investigations. It only seemed fair to even those odds.

“Ah,” the doctor said. “Well, I don’t want to violate his privacy in saying too much. Let’s just say that I can understand his resentment, but that there were unpleasant things I had to do at the time that were for his own good.” He seemed to remember he had a raktajino in front of him and took a quick gulp. “Bleh. Cold. Anyway, are you a father, Garak?”

He shook his head. “I haven’t gotten around to it,” he said in the vague sort of way that usually satisfied such inquiries.

“Nor I,” Mora said. “My work saw to that.”

Garak read much in the few words and the matter-of-fact delivery, particularly added to what he knew of him. Few Bajorans would willingly associate with anyone they viewed as a collaborator. It was easy to pretend he took it a different way. “I would imagine so, a premier researcher of a brand new life form and now, very likely, more in demand than ever with the Dominion threat growing by the day.”

“I have been contacted by the Federation, yes. It’s...well, listen to me going on about my work and asking you nothing of yours. I have to admit I was surprised to learn any Cardassian was still here after the end of the occupation. I didn’t know until Doctor Bashir contacted me during Vedek Bareil’s vigil. I wish that I had been able to be of more help than I was.”

“On the contrary, had you not discovered the drug, I might never have been found,” Garak assured him. “It’s one reason I stopped by your table, to give you a very belated thank you.”

Interesting. Mora’s self-deprecating smile looked sincere, not just for show. “No thanks needed. What doctor isn’t happy when he can help to save lives? Things have gone well since then? No more kidnappings?”

“Not of me.” Garak’s smile tipped wry. “The shop is thriving. I have few complaints beyond the fact that I was forced to return most of the Federation fashions I stocked in anticipation of the signing.”

Doubt darkened Mora’s countenance. “I believe you more than most will be able to appreciate when I say all of that Emissary talk makes me uncomfortable. I believe scrapping the talks was a mistake. We had so much to gain and much to offer in return.”

“Spoken like a man of science.” Garak kept his opinions of the Emissary issue to himself. He was still processing his odd experiences and still chasing holes in his memory at infrequent dinners with Sisko, not something he believed this particular doctor would receive well. He decided a change of subject was in order. “It occurs to me that I may be able to help you.”

“With what?”

“Your Odo problem. I’ve come to know the constable well in our time together on the station.”

Mora looked surprised. “He had such an overall distaste for Cardassians. I’m glad to hear that he was able to overcome it enough to befriend one. It was something I always worried about, his rigidity and need for routine.”

He decided Mora was lucky a debt was one of the few things he respected as all but sacrosanct. He definitely wasn’t doing this for Odo. “Be confrontational but not overbearing. He’ll listen to reason when it’s sound. He may grumble about it, but he’ll listen. Also, bear in mind that having custody of this infant is everything to him.” A piece of home, possibly the only piece of home left open to him. “What child doesn’t dream of the opportunity to heal all of the hurts of their past for someone else?”

Mora looked pained, his hand tightening on his mug. “He thinks I enjoyed hurting him.”

Garak shook his head. “He knows better.”

“He...he’s spoken to you about this?” 

Again, Garak shook his head. “No, Doctor. I simply know him. When he’s hurt, he’s as prickly as a stickle pear.” _Like anyone else you know?_ He ignored the internal jab. “He wouldn’t tolerate your presence in that lab if he believed you were sadistic or ill-intentioned. If you’re wise, you’ll allow him to come to that conclusion on his own.”

It was as though the Bajoran’s entire demeanor shifted, lines of tension relaxing in his shoulders, neck, and jaw. His smile for Garak was warmer than when he’d first approached. “I’ll keep what you’ve said in mind. I... He was such a large part of my life for the time I had him here. Once he struck out on his own, that was over. I just want...”

Ziyal’s excited approach shifted his focus. Garak offered the doctor a final smile as he stood. “You want what any parent wants,” he said easily. Any parent who wasn’t a sadist. “Connection. Please excuse me. I believe I’m about to be summoned.”

“Garak!” Ziyal’s bright smile encompassed both him and Doctor Mora. “Forgive me for interrupting,” she said. “I wanted to be the one to tell you that Nerys had the baby! They’ve named him Kirayoshi. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Quite the honor for the major,” Garak agreed. He caught Mora’s eyes a final time and thought he saw a flash of understanding. Was he truly that transparent when it came to Ziyal? Perhaps he and the doctor had more in common than just their isolation from their people, each man destined to step into a parental role for another’s child no matter how ill suited he might feel for it.

“Will you help me pick out a gift for the O’Briens and Nerys? I’m not very good at knowing what people might want or need.” She wrapped his arm with both of hers as they walked. “Do you think they’ll let me see him soon? I’ve never held a baby. What if I drop him?”

“I hope you don’t expect me to answer all of those questions in order,” he mock chided her. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

_Julian  
Internment Camp 371_

His vision began to return to him out in the corridor. The purple lighting created a glaring halo with the walls and doorways ahead looking more like washed out watercolor than the sharp delineations he was used to. He had to rely more on his hearing to keep himself safe, expecting to run into another patrol any second. He could no longer duck into locked rooms, not with the Vorta vaporized. _At least he couldn’t get a transmission out,_ he thought. It was a small victory in the face of such terrible loss.

He had no time to process it. He ran until he reached the machine room with the tables and ducked under the larger one to wait. It made more sense to encounter one of the patrols this way and hope they didn’t think to look than to wait to run into one of them randomly when he had no concealment. He tried not to think of the sight of Branagh contorting in brief agony and disappearing as though he’d never existed. He had turned out to be useful and resourceful, and Julian had treated him poorly, worse than he treated his Tal Shiar co-conspirators.

Spending time under the table no longer seemed like such a good idea if it left him time for regrets before he was safe. He tensed at the hiss of a door from much further down toward the commons, held his breath once again at the approach of heavy boots, and didn’t fully relax even after they had moved beyond his hiding place. He ran on his toes to keep his heels from clanging on the grating.

The biggest danger lay in emerging from the command center corridor. If there was a Jem’Hadar on the other side to see him exit, he wouldn’t have time to register that he was going to die. The wider corridor beyond the hidden doorway seemed ominously silent.

He slunk along, hugging the wall and straining his ears for a sound, only to duck quickly into the dust shower chamber as soon as he reached it. Just as he drew even with the first stall, a fist rammed him in the chest and sent him flying into the opposite wall. He let out a startled squawk.

Sela rushed forward, grabbed him by his jacket, and hauled him into the stall with her. “I thought you were one of them,” she hissed. She stank of fear sweat, her face drawn into tense lines.

“One of...who? The Jem’Hadar or the Cardassians?”

“Jem’Hadar,” she said tightly. “It was a massacre. Over half of the Cardassians are dead. Almost all of my people. I have no idea if they shot Varal or if he found somewhere to hide. I think they’re going bunk to bunk right now.” She shuddered hard. “What about you?”

He told her in unsentimental tones about the fate of Murak and Branagh as well as the Vorta but left out the part about the communication system. It didn’t matter, and it would only be a reason for despair if Tain failed his mission. He withdrew the drugs and hypospray to share with her knowledge of how to use it all, how to portion out the doses, and which drug was for whom. He figured it wouldn’t hurt for there to be redundancy in that. There was no guarantee both of them would survive the day. Her disappointment that the extra rations were vaporized with Murak was particularly bitter.

He was about to tuck everything back into his jacket when he heard the chamber door open. Instead, he shoved them into her uniform tunic and kissed her forcefully. It took her less than a second to catch on to what he was doing, her response convincing. She tangled fingers in his hair and wrapped a strong leg around the backs of both of his.

A rough hand grabbed the back of his jacket to yank him away from her. He found himself eye to eye with Ikat'ika. “What is this?” the First demanded. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“Do you think I’d give her my rations for free?” he said, not daring more than the smallest hint of insolence in his tone, enough to make it convincing, he hoped, not too much to provoke an execution.

The alien’s eyes glinted with an expression of disgust. “We’ll see how solitary confinement shapes that attitude of yours, prisoner. As for you,” he added, glancing past him to Sela, “get in your barracks until further notice, and don’t make me regret this decision.”

She closed the top of her tunic, nodded, and darted out.

_At least I saved one of us,_ he thought. He didn’t resist being shoved ahead of his captor. If he was very lucky, they wouldn’t connect him to the Vorta’s disappearance. With the way things had gone today, he wasn’t sure he believed in luck anymore.

_Garak  
Kira’s Quarters_

With his arms full of parcels, only some of which he had purchased, Garak pulled up short with Ziyal outside the door to Kira’s quarters. Jake straightened from his lean against the wall, and Nog pursed his lips. “You’re over ten minutes late,” he told them.

Garak raised both eye ridges and shot a questioning glance Ziyal’s way. This was news to him. The look she returned contained subtle pleading, and suddenly he understood part of why he was here, a chaperone of sorts so that the major wouldn’t chide her for having boys over while she was away. 

“There was a long line at the last shop,” Ziyal said. She keyed the entry and ushered the boys in ahead of her. Garak brought up the rear. The state of the quarters was shocking, not quite as bad as his deliberate destruction, but art supplies, artwork in various stages of completion, and clothing everywhere.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather room with Jake?” Nog asked tartly.

“Nog!” both Ziyal and Jake exclaimed at the same time then looked to Garak with varying degrees of embarrassment.

“If you don’t mind?” Garak gestured at the covered dining table. He had no intention of indefinitely holding onto the packages and simply standing in the middle of the room waiting for something to happen.

“I’ll get it, Mister Garak,” Jake said quickly.

“Oh, sure, you’ll jump right to it for someone else,” Nog huffed.

Jake rolled his eyes. As he had nowhere decent to stash most of the mess, he shuffled it into piles on the floor. Garak put down the gifts and pinned Ziyal with an arch look. “I suppose you have a good reason for waiting until the last minute to decide to clean some of this up?”

“I’ve been spending a lot of time with Nerys,” she said. It rang hollow to his ears, an impression not helped by Jake’s guilty refusal to look at him.

“I see,” he said, something severe in the tone. He liked a good lie as much as the next person if it was creative and served a purpose beyond ineffective deception. “I have half a mind just to leave you to it.”

“Garak, please!” she said, eyes widening. “I didn’t think she’d be coming back until tomorrow, but Doctor Bashir says he’s releasing her tonight.”

He noticed approvingly that Nog wasn’t procrastinating or wasting time listening to them argue. He had already settled on gathering the scattered art supplies into a crate he found resting under a star port. Garak glared at Jake until he made himself useful, too, only then choosing his own task, the finished artwork resting against walls and furniture. “I hope you have some spare cloths for draping between some of these canvases and tubes for the drawings.”

“I do. They’re in the closet. I’ll get them now.” She hurried into the bedroom and returned a few minutes later. “This is everything I have. It’s OK to double up on some of those if there aren’t enough for all of them.”

“You both owe me,” Nog said flatly, holding a stocking between his finger and thumb.

Ziyal snatched it out of his hand. “I’ll handle the clothes.”

With the four of them to divide the work, they had the mess under control within the hour. Garak insisted Jake run a cleaning tube over the floor and furniture. He didn’t have to tell Nog to wipe down the dining table. He changed the bedclothes while Ziyal went to work on the refresher. _Cleaning someone else’s quarters when your own are a disaster, all on a work day, too._ He felt irritable from lack of sleep and knew other emotions lay beneath the surface of the irritability that he didn’t want to examine. If he wasn’t so annoyed with Ziyal for being irresponsible, he might have been grateful for the distraction.

She emerged back into the living area to survey it, tucking some stray hair back up into her elaborate twist. “I can’t thank all of you enough,” she said, sounding relieved.

“You can try,” Nog said. Jake elbowed him, hard.

“We’re glad to do it,” Jake said, grinning. “I mean, it’s for Major Kira, too, right? I bet she’ll be relieved to be back rooming with you. Not that there’s anything wrong with the O’Briens. It was nice of you to help out, too, Mister Garak.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” he said in such a way he hoped conveyed both disapproval and a cautionary message.

It was Ziyal’s turn to look annoyed.

“Now you can help me clean our quarters,” Nog said to Jake. “Consider it the beginning of paying me back for this.”

“I could help,” Ziyal offered.

Nog shook his head. “I haven’t decided what I’ll ask from you yet. We can handle our quarters.”

“Fine,” Jake said. He glanced at Garak before awkwardly offering Ziyal a hand to press. It was obvious it wasn’t their usual manner of parting. Her impish expression cemented the impression.

“Apparently, I’m the only person who has actual work to do,” Garak said. “I hope some of us have learned something from this.” He left rather ungraciously and headed toward the turbolift. Maybe when he had more sleep, he’d find something about all of this amusing.

Given the fact it was already mid-morning, he decided to take the day off. He didn’t feel like dealing with customers or running the risk of seeing Julian even incidentally. That pain was still fresh. He needed time to lick his wounds and re-form defenses he had allowed to lapse more than was prudent.

He was pleased to discover that it was easier to be in his chambers than last night. He worked steadily through the rest of the day and decided he liked the new pared down look once things were clean and the debris cleared. Now, only Ziyal’s painting graced his walls. He centered it in a place of honor above his sideboard. A trip to the Bolian’s liquor store restocked his kanar and spring wine. He bought a glass and tray set that he believed Leeta would find attractive for when he entertained.

Kotra exercises occupied the rest of his afternoon and early evening. He ate a bit and tucked himself in early to make up for his sleepless night. By the next morning, he felt well rested and more inclined to face his problems head on. The Replimat was abuzz with news of Odo’s returned abilities, the death of the changeling infant, and the birth of the O’Briens’ boy.

_Replimat Cafe_

He toyed with his spoon, swirling a bit of jam into his porridge and giving no outward impression of eavesdropping. The fact that his empathy extended to Odo troubled him. He shook his head. Why could he not excise these inconvenient attachments? With the Founder infant dead, his sense of alarm and panic left him, making room for those older desires for connection to someone he could respect more often than not. Someone who understood him and didn’t view him through a sentimental or prejudicial lens.

He saw Odo approaching from the security office and knew he’d been spotted, as he headed directly toward him. _So much for time to consider this,_ he thought. He gestured wordlessly for the constable to take the other seat at the table.

Odo did so, his usual taciturn look less sternness than deep sadness. Garak doubted most would be able to tell the difference. “I’m afraid I won’t be eating with you again,” Odo began.

“I heard,” Garak said. “A Tarkalean Hawk? Rather dramatic of you.” Just like that he was decided. Things didn’t have to change for them if Odo didn’t want them to. That longing to be with his people had been there all along, after all. Garak’s knowledge of it changed nothing.

Odo’s mouth twitched very slightly. Garak read gratitude in their brief eye contact. Forming a mug in his grip, Odo pretended to sip from it and watched the morning crowd passing down the Promenade. “I suppose you’ve also heard Aroya is returning to Bajor.”

Garak nodded and took a small bite of his porridge. He didn’t know if he should feel bad for Odo about that or not. Certainly, there seemed to be a fondness there, but not the spark he’d hoped for, not true connection. “Will you attend the party?” he asked.

Odo snorted. “I had better, or I’d never hear the end of it.” He sighed. “I’ll miss her.”

“As will I. Fortunately, Bajor isn’t so far from the station. If you care to keep in touch, it won’t be difficult.” He washed down his food with his fish juice.

Odo shook his head slightly. Garak understood without needing to ask, and he realized that this was why he was able to do this. Somewhere along the way, they had transcended the difficulties of inter-species communication and their own intense needs for privacy to find satisfying common ground.

_Julian  
Internment Camp 371_

Whether he had his raw eyes open or closed, Julian could see it in his mind’s eye replay again and again, Branagh’s final moments and the chaos of the control room before he was temporarily blinded. He heard the bones crunch, the disruptor blasts, and he didn’t know if he was grateful or guilty that he hadn’t seen Murak’s final moments. The Vulcan had saved his life and given his own for nothing more than a few doses of medication that would prolong one dying man’s life only if he chose to take it and give another merely a slight fighting chance.

In hindsight, his own part in the debacle fell into question. Had he done it all simply not to feel so helpless and useless? Murak, Branagh, possibly Varal, were their lives worth such a scant prize? He hugged his knees closer and rested his forehead on his forearms. He had no idea if Tain had succeeded in getting his message out. He might never find out. How long did they intend to keep him in this room?

Unlike the rest of the prison, it was cold here, so cold he shivered and balled up to conserve body heat. He had seen one small ventilation tube. It didn’t stop him from feeling short of breath and worrying that he could suffocate. This reminded him too much of the time he lay dying in Dax’s arms.

He wished mightily that he could conjure Garak’s voice again. It had been such a comfort then. That thought brought its own torment. What was his replacement up to on the station? Had anyone discovered it? Surely Miles could tell the difference. He knew him better than almost anyone. With Garak keeping his distance, the chief was the best line of defense.

What if Garak wasn’t keeping his distance? That thought turned his stomach and knotted it in fear. The Founders hated Cardassians. Garak could already be dead or captive, being tormented somewhere else. Thank god he and Leeta had broken up, and there was no one else.

“Jadzia would notice if we’d been together,” he said aloud. The sound of his own voice comforted him, yet he clamped his lips together. What would stop them from recording him? He could reveal far too much talking to himself. How long had it been now?

He thought that he ought to be able to entertain himself better than this, to come up with something to occupy him. How often had he lamented on Deep Space Nine that he barely had time just to eat and get in a little sleep now and then? 

That was different. He wasn’t worried sick about his friends and loved ones then. Just four Founders on Earth nearly destroyed the government. How much damage could one with his access do on a space station? The worst part about being so intelligent? He had a magnificent imagination.

_Garak  
Security Office_

“Well?” Odo sounded impatient at his back. He had insisted on remaining in the office and watching Garak at the terminal.

“I’m sorry to disappoint,” Garak said airily. “This transmission is five years old. It’s a planetary survey report, not even a habitable planet, I’m afraid. Are we done here?”

Odo nodded grudgingly, his scrutiny intense. “If you’re lying, you know I’ll find out,” he said.

“I wish I was lying, Constable,” he said. “It has been rather dull of late.” He walked from the office casually. Inwardly he reeled. Tain was alive after all this time, alive and confident he would come to his rescue. _I should let you rot,_ he thought angrily, already knowing he wouldn’t, any more than he had stayed away from Julian completely. He’d be damned if he allowed the man to win and know he had cut him to the core.

It was why he had a lunch date with him and Ziyal at the Replimat later, and Odo’s scrutiny was why he intended to keep it. There would be time to steal a runabout and leave before anyone was the wiser. He only had to seize the opportunity when it presented itself.

**Author's Note:**

> This spans the time frame of the episodes “The Darkness and the Light” through the very beginning of “In Purgatory’s Shadow.” It deals primarily with the aftermath of “The Darkness and the Light,” and the events of “The Begotten,” with just a toe dipped into “In Purgatory’s Shadow.” It is in tight continuity with the rest of the stories covering Julian’s time in the internment camp and will make little sense as a stand-alone.


End file.
